Monday, Bloody Monday. The only good thing about Monday is Andy. Alice was not enthused.
She resigned herself to the overcrowded rush-hour train, and the claustrophobic tedium, as passengers swayed, and their bodies bumped and rubbed.
Wait. Something's wrong.
The passenger behind had swayed against her, but his ... hand? ...yes, it was his hand ... had pressed under the hem of the cute miniskirt she was wearing to entice Andy. The hand didn't sway away; it wedged itself between her nether lips ... gently reciprocating, back and forth ... across her gusset. She squirmed in indignant discomfort, only succeeding in embedding the finger deeper, but remained pinioned, by the crowd, to the spot.
Annoyingly, her pussy began to weep. The hand felt encouraged, and the oiled intruder began to rotate, easing aside the token gusset of the Anne Summers G-string she'd intended to flash at Andy. At the next station, yet more passengers forced their way into the carriage. As her abuser was flattened against her, she felt his body slid down her back, the finger hooked aside the gusset, then he slid back up.
A warm, turgid, pulsing, and alarmingly large - she knew what it was -- slid into its, now lubricious, target, and she was hoisted onto tiptoes.
Christ ... should I scream ... with terror ... or delight ... or not at all. Other girls had 'complained' about this, though she wasn't sure if they complained that it had, or hadn't, happened to them.
What to do? Scream? Make a scene? Her face gaped, slack jawed. Would they hold the train? Would the passengers be angry? Who would be blamed -- me, my short skirt? The doors closed, the train jerked and pulled away.
She gulped and composed herself.
I'm a stoic, I won't spin the world into chaos, I take the pleasure and spurn the offence. Those others girls complained, but not on the train. They were wise, they complained to other girls ... in the wine bar. They enjoyed it ...they now could humbly boast ... look how I used the abuse of those horny guys for MY pleasure. I'll negate the abuse and take only the pleasure.
This was the longest leg between stations. It was rude to make eye-contact. She'd decided she'd be flattered. At least, someone appreciated her short skirt and indecent frillies. Be stoic ... imagine it's Andy. With acceptance came an unimagined degree of pleasure. She'd never enjoyed the commute to work before. A zipper-less fuck wasn't the worst way to start your week but this was a zipper-less fuck on steroids.
What would ordinarily be a long unpleasant experience was transformed, through acceptance, into an, all too brief, moment of unparalleled ecstasy. At the next stop and she could clean up in the ladies and go about her day. When she ceased resisting, her vaginal muscles began to enthusiastically milk. It was piquant, and so very pleasing. Too soon, the train drew to halt, her abuser jerked three or four times then performed the insertion manoeuvre, this time to un-insert. She reluctantly readjusted to reality.
She stepped forward as the compacted humanity decompressed through the doors onto the station. It would be so embarrassing to turn and meet his eyes. It was a little late to complain now, with little cause for complaint. It was a fair exchange.
Mounting the steps, she realised his cream pie was oozing down her inner thighs.
My God, the bastard is behind me admiring the sight of his curdling ejaculate? Is everyone else, too?
By the time she reached a cubicle, his jizz had reached her knees. Talk about copious. Had he been saving up? She took her white hanky and carefully mopped up. She spread the hanky and examined the incipient staining, then slumped onto the toilet seat to reflect, her emotions in turmoil. Impertinent bastard, really bloody impertinent. If he'd asked for a date, he might have struck lucky, but uninvited ... on a train. How many girls?
Anyway, now we share a secret ... and I have a trophy.
She held the hanky to her nose inhaled and fantasised who he might be. Again, she turned his abuse to her pleasure. She realised she was fingering herself, reflexively teasing her tumescent clit, and sat up abruptly.
Fuck it. Fuck it. It's fucking Monday.
She relaxed back, danced her way to an epically paroxysmal orgasm, rested, then walked to the office, with a sprightly step and in euphoric mood. She set to work, sharing her joy with her coworkers at large.
Next day, it happened again.
Fuck. Maybe I should've said something yesterday. Now, no one will believe me. I hope this won't become an everyday occurrence. She sounded insincere, even to herself.
It did. Every workday. But she looked forward to it and, at weekends, missed it.
Seduced and aroused by the sheer brazenness of this risqué pleasure shared between her and her secret admirer, she determined to do nothing to break the spell. To secretly signal her consent, she shaved her pubic hair and wore no panties when she travelled. Her G-string remained in her handbag until she'd masturbated. Thus, two souls secretly conspiring transformed each other's journey into a time of supreme liberation. All the while, they stood, undetected and unremarkable, amongst conscripted and reluctant wage slaves.
Spring turned to summer. She extemporised, and their concealed motions became balletic, culminating on time, every workday, just before the doors opened. Every girl should have a secret admirer to brighten her journey to work.
Each day she'd slip into the ladies and mop-up with the same white, now yellowed and starchy, handkerchief, place it over her face and masturbate to a breathless and paroxysmal orgasm, concluding her part in the mutual conspiracy he'd initiated on the train. When she woke at weekends, she would lie in bed with the hanky over her face, savouring the pungent odour, masturbating and reliving in her imagination the trip to work. She'd do the same before sleep.
One morning, as she made towards the steps, a lipstick fell from her handbag. She paused to retrieve it, but was knocked flat on her face by the person behind. He stopped, made apologies, and helped her up.
'Andy.'
'Alice, I'm sorry. You stopped so suddenly ... I was carried into you by the crowd.'
Making small talk, he took her arm and led her up the stairs. Her mind raced. Coincidence ... or was it him?
She paused at the ladies. 'I really must pop in here.'
